


Untitled American Teenlock

by mktellstales



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: America, Brother/Sister - Freeform, California, Carnival, Expats, F/M, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, He is also not straight, Hot car, Infidelity, John is not gay, Kitchy Diners, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, No deductions, Present Tense, Rimming, Sherlock and Mary are related, Surfing, Swimming Pools, Teenager/University, Trying not to be in love, Unsafe Sex, beach, lots of ocean talk, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: “No, it isn’t - it isn’t just that!” John shouts. “I like you, Sherlock. I really fucking like you, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it, because the last time I liked a boy I was fifteen and I never even kissed him. I never even told him I liked him, and I don't - I don't want you to end up on my list of boys I should have kissed, but never did."Sherlock is dumbfounded. John liked a boy before. John likes him now. John thinks he’s beautiful.
Relationships: Mary Morstan & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Mk, this is definitely a little bit of a guilty pleasure reading, in my opinion. I have this weird obsession with Mary being Sherlock's sister (and I have no idea why!), and ever since I took my family to San Diego, I also have an obsession with the boys (John specifically) being on that beautiful California beach with the sunshine on their face. So, suddenly, I found myself making them (mostly) American, and being by the ocean as often as possible. 
> 
> And actually, this is a more fleshed out version of a very, very rough story I posted a couple years ago.
> 
> Couple things: If you've read any of my stories previously, you know infidelity is pretty much my main theme, so it's present here as well, and it isn't just John cheating on Mary - he and Sherlock are a bit not good to each other as well, so, while I promise it ends well (for the boys at least), if you can't handle them hurting each other, this one is not for you (and that's totally okay!). And also, like I said, they live in America, so yea, things are a little bit different than usual! And I apologize for the present tense - I do not like writing in it, but no matter how hard I tried to write this 'normal', it kept coming out this way, so I rolled with it. Lastly, I did not make Sherlock a genius, I did not have him do any deductions - I tried, but it didn't fit into the story and just felt forced, so I took it all out and kept it as it was. 
> 
> Anyway, if you choose to read it, I hope you like it and leave a kudos or a comment for me!

The bright, full moon reflects the dark blue waters of the backyard pool where John holds Mary in his arms and kisses gently at the skin between her neck and her shoulder. They listen to their breath and the ocean waves lap at the shore beyond the infinite edge of the otherwise silence of the mid-night.

“I’m going to miss you,” John whispers in her ear. 

“You can come with me.”

“You’re already sharing 500 square feet with 3 other girls.”

Mary turns in his arms, “Mmm, I’ll just keep you tucked away in my bed. That’s all you're really good for anyway.” 

John chuckles, “I always knew you were only with me because of my cock.”

Mary’s thumb catches the sharp prickle of his stubbled chin “seriously though, come with me. We can spend the summer making love, and you can apply to NYU again next year. We can jog through Central Park on the crisp fall mornings and make snowmen in the winter...”

“You had me until snow,” John says with a laugh, “I _will_ be there with you one day. But I _have_ med school _here_ , and work -”

“The diner?” she asks, a little distaste on her tongue.

“Yes, _the diner_. It brings me 600 dollars in tips _a day_ during the summer. Money I put away for you and me.”

“What about med school and NYU?”

“I’ll apply again in a year or two.”

“I just don’t know how long I can be without you.”

John wraps her tight against his chest, “I’ll visit often.”

“Well, I might not ever let you leave once you’re there.”

Mary kisses him slowly before she swims to the edge and finishes her glass of wine from the bottle she stole out of the cellar. Her dad would holler and scream when he saw the empty space under his vintage collection, but Mary doesn’t care; she’s leaving in just a few hours anyway. 

“Look, John. We don’t know how long we’re going to really be apart, and it would be unfair of me to ask you to...let your sex drive go to waste - “

“Stop right there. I have no interest in being with any other woman. I’ve been with you since I was sixteen, and you’re more than good enough for me.”

“Just in case I want you to know it’s okay. Just don’t fall in love with anyone else.”

John swims over to her and pulls her legs around his waist so she’s pinned between him and the wall. He kisses her nose first, then her cheeks and finally her lips, 

“I will never love anyone but you, Mary Holmes.”

* * * * * * * * * 

“Looks like we finally got that rain we were promised last week,” John says from the doorway watching it fall down in sheets against the thirsty asphalt of the diner parking lot.

Sherlock looks up from behind the counter, and rolls his eyes, “Maybe you should reconsider your career as a doctor and go into meteorology instead.”

John pushes away from the frame and rolls his eyes right back, “Shut up.”

Sherlock huffs a satisfied laugh, and starts to wipe the counter for only the hundredth time since midnight when they turned off their obnoxious, neon _open_ sign. Maybe if he brings the rag straight to the table of stragglers keeping him there they would get the hint and go home. He hates most people, and he especially hates the customers at the diner, but Mary asked John to get him the job over the summer before college to _keep him out of trouble_ , and he feels an annoying sense of brotherly obligation to keep it. 

He isn’t even the one of them to get into trouble. Sherlock studies, practices his violin, and wastes away his days at their pool. 

Sometimes, he’ll smoke a cigarette or two and drink a margarita, but Mary is the one who used to sneak down to the beach and put away a bottle of flavored vodka and screw her _boyfriend._ Not always safely either - Sherlock remembers more than one occasion escorting her to the drug store for a pregnancy test.

John doesn’t realize how lucky he is. 

“Have a good night,” he hears John call and looks up from the counter. 

Finally! They’re gone. 

He unties his apron and flings off his ridiculous candy striped vest and tucks them underneath the counter in one big ball where his backpack is and leaps out the door to stand underneath the awning when he feels someone slide next to him.

“Waiting for Mycroft?” John asks him.

“Yep.” 

“I can give you a ride. If you want. I do know where you live.”

Sherlock’s known John a long time; he was the first boy Mary brought home after they moved from London to California, and he’s always been nice enough to Sherlock even when she wasn’t around. They weren’t _friends_ but they were friendly enough.

Besides Mycroft texted earlier he was hung up at the Law library, which means Sherlock could be waiting for hours in the rain. 

“Sure,” he says and grabs his backpack from the bench behind him. 

They run across the parking lot through to John’s old, aqua Toyota parked in the very last space. Sherlock waits an impatient second for John to reach over and pull up the lock on the passenger side. 

It smells like suntan lotion and salt when he gets in. He shakes the water from his hair and holds his hands up to the heat coming from the sagging vents. His foot kicks a plastic bin at his feet and he picks it up to start sifting through dozens of old cassette tapes. 

“How does this car still run?” he asks.

“You don’t even have a car.”

“I do too.”

“Why does Mycroft take you everywhere then?”

“I don’t have my license.”

“You don’t know how to drive?”

"That’s what the DMV keeps telling me. For god's sake, don’t you have anything past 1990 in here?” he asks of the tapes.

“There might be some Gin Blossoms in there somewhere.”

“Is it because your car is ancient or are you truly stuck in the 80’s? A decade, by the way, you weren’t even alive.”

“It’s good music. And the cassette tape is going to make a comeback.”

“I don’t think so.” He puts the bin back at his feet, content to listen to whatever time capsule John already has on.

“How has Mary put up with you all this time?” he asks.

“I’m a fantastic kisser.”

“I really didn’t need to know that.”

“Oh, it’s not like I told you I’m great in bed. Which I am, by the way.”

Sherlock feels himself start to blush, but he isn’t sure why, “Maybe it can be quiet time the rest of the way.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re so prudish, it’s fun to mess with you sometimes.”

“I’m not a prude just because I haven’t had sex.”

“Fair enough. But how did that even happen? You’re young, attractive; live in a town where people are half undressed already, you still have some accent…Someone out there has to want you.”

“Relationships are messy, sex is messy. They both turn people into bigger idiots than they already are. I don’t see the appeal.”

“You will one day.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Everyone was always trying to tell him that - everyone except for Mycroft, which might be the only thing his older brother is actually good for.

But Sherlock is certain sex and relationships especially, aren’t worth all the trouble. 

They’re quiet the rest of the winding drive to the house on top of the cliff, and John parks in the center of the rounded driveway. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. 

“Anytime. Hey, are you working tomorrow?”

“Until one. Why?”

“A few of us are going surfing...If you wanted to come after your shift.”

“That’s not really my thing.”

“I know, but,” John shrugs his shoulders, “if you change your mind, text me.”

“Okay. Maybe.” Sherlock gathers his bag and gets out of the car.

“Goodnight,” he says before closing the door.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock runs once again through the rain and into the garage door not wanting to fumble with his key for the front gate. It’s quiet in the house; his mom on the last few weeks of her dig in India, and his dad long asleep for surgeries in the morning, and with Mycroft and Mary not living there anymore; it’s fortunate Sherlock likes his own company best. 

He takes a can of soda from the fridge and goes upstairs to strip off his grease stained trousers and white shirt. He turns on his ipod to some prefabricated 80’s station- just because- and lays against his duvet.

He starts to think about John's proposition.

It _would_ be sticky tomorrow once the rain finally stops and the cold ocean might feel good, and John wouldn’t have invited him if he didn’t actually want him to be there, and he doesn’t have any real objections to hanging out with him. But his friends will be there too, and they’re the usual idiots Sherlock tries to avoid.

He climbs underneath his covers and decides he’ll figure it out tomorrow.

***********

Sherlock makes coffee when he wakes up, showers, and puts on the same dirty pants from the day before, but a clean, crisp, white shirt from his closet because he got mustard all over the other. He throws his lavender swim trunks and a towel into his backpack - _just in case -_ and takes his coffee to go as he waits outside for Mycroft’s shining black Bentley to pull up. 

“I didn’t have to honk once,” he says when Sherlock gets in, “have a hard time sleeping?”

“I slept fine, thank you.”

“I have a meeting this afternoon so I might not be able to pick you up right away.”

“I might have plans anyway.”

Suspicious, Mycroft turns to look at him, “plans?”

“I might go to the beach with a friend.”

"The beach? With a friend?”

“I hope you contribute more than an echo at your meeting.”

“I’m just surprised is all. You don’t normally go in for those sorts of things.”

“Maybe friend wasn’t the right word - acquaintance really. It’s only John.”

“Oh, well, text me if you need me.”

Sherlock twists his face in disgust, “don’t ever say that again.”

Mycroft leaves him at the entrance to the diner and Sherlock starts another day.

He likes the breakfast crowd; blue haired ladies and bald men who’ve been ordering the same thing for the last thirty years, and the hungover party goers who just want their coffee and to be left the hell alone. 

Of course , breakfast eventually turns into lunch, and those are the people Sherlock can’t stand in the least; tourists mostly lured in by the 50’s kitsch and constant smell of grilled onions. 

They never know what they want, but they know it was brought to them too slowly and too cold, and the tip is often where they’re trying to save cost on their vacation.

Sherlock is grateful when it’s all finally over. 

He sits at the counter counting his tips. He already knows how much there is, and doesn’t really care anyway, but he wants to waste time instead of deciding what he wants to do. 

Why was it such a big deal? 

He _knows_ John, he likes John, John wants him to be there. 

Sherlock sighs and goes into the employee bathroom to change into his trunks and a black t-shirt. 

Beakman’s Point, where John surfs, is just a mile down the road. He takes off his shoes when he finally hits the sand and walks another quarter mile until he sees them: Mike Stamford, one of John’s high school mates, and his childhood friend Bill who visits from London every summer. Mike is the nicer of the two, one of those perpetually cheery types, but Bill is wonderful to look at; fit and tan with his chestnut hair in a bun on top of his head, and his ass is perfectly round even underneath his loose board shorts. Sherlock may not be interested in pursuing sex, but he has no issues appreciating the beauty of his fellow man. 

He sighs and continues closer when he finally sees John. 

His wetsuit shimmers in the high afternoon light where it’s bent over his waist just far enough to see the parts of his skin that don’t get touched by the sun and to catch a peek at the lines of a tattoo Sherlock didn’t know he has. His golden hair is slicked back by the ocean water, and he’s wearing his ridiculous pink and black Wayfarers. He licks his lips, laughs at something Bill says and takes an easy drink from the bottle of beer he’s holding between his fingers. 

Sherlock feels light headed. Something like this has never happened to him before. Okay, maybe once, probably twice, but it was so unpleasant he promised he would never let it happen again, but John is so _beautiful_ standing there, so quintessentially California, and all of a sudden Sherlock can’t keep calm underneath his hot, aching skin.

He thinks maybe he’ll just turn around and go home when John sees him and he smiles, and Sherlock can’t go anywhere even if he still wants to.

“Sherlock!” John calls as he runs to him like the goddamn opening of Baywatch, “I didn’t think you were going to come, but uh - but I’m glad you did,” John licks his lips again, and Sherlock bites down on the bottom of his own

What the actual hell is wrong with him?

He lays his towel over the sand, and takes off his shirt. He digs in his bag for sunscreen and starts to rub it on, certain he’s already begun to burn through the fabric  of his t-shirt.

“Need help?” John asks.

“Uh - I think I’ve got it.”

John picks the bottle up before Sherlock has a chance, and  squirts  some of the lotion into his hands. He  rubs it  over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his back. Sherlock  closes his eyes and tries  not to actually feel John’s strong fingers against the moles and  blemishes  of his adolescent skin.  He’s on the brink of forgetting to breathe when John brushes at the waistline of his swim trunks and Sherlock can’t take anymore.

“That’s good - th-thanks.” 

He quickly puts the lotion away, and sits, content to observe them as they attempt to ride the late afternoon waves. John asks him if he wants a lesson, but Sherlock isn’t in the mood to embarrass himself, and w hen the sun starts to set they build a fire.

“How’s the long distance going?” Mike asks John once they’re all settled.

“I had to buy a wrist brace the other day, but I do have enough pictures to make a very inappropriate scrapbook.”

“Have you done it on video yet?” Bill asks.

“We tried, but it kept glitching, and it was stuck with her in this really awkward position -“ John looks across the flames to Sherlock, “and her little brother is right here,” he says.

“It’s fine. I’ll just delete the whole thing.”

“What about you, Sherlock?” Mike asks him as he tosses a beer over to him. 

“What about me?”

“Any girls you’re hooking up with?”

“Uh, no.”

“I don’t really think  _ girls _ are his area, mate” Bill says.

“Oh. Boys then?”

"No. No girls, no boys,” he takes a drink of the beer, “is this all you guys do? Sit around, drink and talk about sex?”

“Pretty much,” John answers him.

“Okay. Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing something deeper.”

They laugh and find something new, but equally asinine to talk about before the fire starts to die out, and they pack up to leave.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” John asks.

Sherlock looks at the surfboard underneath his arm, “I think I can make it on my own.”

“Or my bungalow is just down the beach. Bill will be there, but he’ll just pass out.”

They’re both a little drunk and Sherlock is tired. He wants to say yes - to both offers, to anything else John wants to ask him, but it’s probably best if he doesn’t .

“I’ll see you at work,” he says and turns to walk away. 


	2. Chapter 2

The sun beats hotter as the summer saunters on. Sherlock works, and goes home , and does his best to avoid John, though he isn’t really sure why. 

Maybe because shortly after the day at the beach Sherlock had a dream about John where he was in that wetsuit, out in the surf, the sun setting behind him, and he was smiling back at Sherlock on the beach before he came in with the tide and kissed him - his fingers carding through Sherlock’s hair, that tongue that is always licking his damn lips, expertly pushing into his mouth.

It was the first time Sherlock had to change the sheets when he woke up since he was fourteen and saw Daniel Craig as James Bond.

Maybe it’s because when they  _ are  _ together at work he finds their fingers lingering when they hand off a plate or a cup of coffee or even a dirty rag, or  because between pictures of landmarks and bars she thought were  _ ‘super cute _ ’ Mary texts him about how much she missed John, and it confuses Sherlock as to why that bothers him. 

He works a breakfast shift with John, and is hanging up his apron, desperate to get away from the cedar and vanilla scent of John’s shampoo that followed him everywhere he went that morning, when he feels what he knows is his hand on his arm.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asks.

“Organizing my sock drawer,” Sherlock answers, and John laughs, but stops when Sherlock doesn’t laugh along with him.

“Oh. You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious about that?”

“No, of course, because who isn’t serious about socks? But uh - if you think you can tear yourself away from  _ that _ , do you want to go to the carnival with me?”

“Well, who else would be there?”

“No one. Just you and me.”

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry, “oh, um -“

“I know it’s corny, but I’ve always liked going.”

“No one else will go with you, will they?”

“I asked four days ago and they're still making fun of me.” 

Sherlock laughs, and John looks so sincere and almost pathetic, “Sure, I’ll go with you,” he says. 

“Great! I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Yea, okay.” 

John smiles at him before he leaves and Sherlock swears it’s the exact same smile as his dream. 

He knows it’s ridiculous, but he can’t stop all the feelings that come at him. He knew that pining and lusting, and  _ wanting  _ someone would be an unnecessary pain - that’s why he’s never let himself be put through it, but the torture of being near John when he can’t have him is also exuisite in a way he never imagined. 

He goes through four shirts when he gets home before he justifies that anything will go with the fifth pair of jeans he picked out, and nothing is going to look good enough anyway, so he blindly picks up a pale yellow polo and agrees with himself that it will be the one. He fusses with his curls, trying to tame them at least a little bit and sprays on a spritz of the cologne Mycroft gifted him last Christmas, and  sits in front of his laptop and watches the time change:  _ 6:50, 6:51, 6:52.  _

At 6:53 the doorbell rings and his dad calls a few seconds after. Sherlock checks himself in the mirror one last time, puts a few of his curls back into place and goes down the back staircase.  He rounds the corner where the dining room meets the living room and takes a breath before he crosses in front of the grand staircase to see John in the foyer talking to his dad.

He looks amazing in rose colored shorts and a champagne shirt.

“Hey,” John says, a little breathless.

“Hi.”

Sherlock grabs his sweater by the door, and follows John to his car, but as they get closer, an idea creeps in his head. 

He takes John by the wrist and drags him to the garage. 

“What?” John asks as the large, heavy wood door starts to lift.

“I can’t get in that car again,” Sherlock answers, “so, we’ll take mine.” 

There’s five cars inside, but it’s the bronze, 2 door Mustang GT in the front Sherlock hands John the keys to. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“I almost always am.”

“I can’t drive this car, Sherlock. I mean it’s - is this next year's model?”

“You’ll be fine, John. Get in.”

Sherlock shoves the keys into John’s hand and gets into the passenger side. He watches as John runs his fingers over the smooth curves of the hood before he slips into the leather of the driver's seat and turns the ignition. 

“Wow,” he whispers to himself as the engine vibrates underneath them.

Sherlock is terribly turned on by the look on John’s face and for the first time he understands the link between cars and sex. 

“Is this a convertible?” John asks.

Sherlock reaches over to press the button that puts the top down, “yep.”

“Wow,” he repeats again.

**********

  
  


The carnival comes every summer on the boardwalk. Sherlock hasn’t gone since the first year they moved to California, but he’s excited to be there now; under the hot, vintage bulbs with John. 

They stop to play a game; knock down too heavy milk pails with too light a ball. Sherlock fails miserably - twice -, but John wins on his first try, and gives his prize to Sherlock.

“DId you just win me a prize?” He asks.

“No, I won  _ myself _ a prize, but I already have enough giant stuffed bananas, so I gave it to you.”

“Because everyone needs a giant, stuffed banana.”

“Some people do.”

They both laugh and keep going on past the alley of games, the funnel cakes and cotton candy. Sherlock feels like he could reach out and take John’s hand into his own, and that maybe, just in this moment, it would be okay. 

But he doesn’t.

“You’re not afraid of heights are you?” John asks, motioning to the Ferris wheel ahead of them.

“No.”

They wait in line and climb inside when the next empty bucket spins through.  It’s their turn to stop at the top, and Sherlock is absolutely positive that the view of the city below them is made immensely better with John in it. 

If they were in a movie or a YA novel they would have been at that part where one of them says something profound and too wordy for their age, and they would kiss against the picturesque background, but it’s real life, and so they both say nothing as they slowly make their way back to the ground. 

“Are you ready?” John asks, “to go,” he clarifies.

“Y-yea.”

They make their way back to the car, and John opens the door for him before getting in on the other side. 

They’re quiet on the drive, just the sound of the radio in the air between them, but Sherlock hopes John’s head is at least a little bit as loud as his is. 

Obsessive thoughts as to why this is such an obsession stream through his brain like miles of code on a computer, and somewhere in there has to be the solution to make it stop, to make everything go back to the way it was. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready to give this car up yet,” John says, breaking through Sherlock’s internal panic. 

“You don’t have to.”

John looks over at him with a devious smile and takes an unexpected turn up a winding road. He keeps driving for a while, and Sherlock wonders why he said that, okay, he knows exactly why he said that, but it would have been better had he not, better if John just brought him home and Sherlock scrubbed the whole night away in the shower. 

The car finally stops and Sherlock looks out into the darkness of the canyon rocks around them and the bay far out in the distance. 

“Sherlock,” John starts, and when he doesn’t say anything else, Sherlock looks across the gear shift at him. 

“Hmmm?” He asks.

John’s eyes narrow as he looks at Sherlock - his nose, his eyes, his shoulder, his neck - his lips. But whatever he wants to say, he doesn’t. Whatever he wants to do, which Sherlock knows is exactly what he wants to do too, he doesn’t. Again.

They sit a while longer before John starts up the car and drives Sherlock back home. He doesn’t want to go, because he knows this night of unspoken uncertainty is the best he’ll ever get from John. 

“You’re still not ready to give the car up, are you?” Sherlock asks when they’ve gotten back.

“It’s so beautiful,” John whines, his knuckles white over the steering wheel. 

“Keep it for a while.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It just sits in the garage.”

“So, drive it.”

“I told you I don’t have my license. You like it, so you should have it.”

“We don’t always get what we want, Sherlock.”

He looks at John, and knows he isn’t just talking about the car. 

“I’m letting you have _this_ ,” he says. 

John looks at him, and sighs, “alright, okay. But just for a little while.”

They look at each other and John licks his lips in that way that he does, Sherlock realizes, all the time. Sherlock wants to lean over and kiss him, but he can’t, he won’t, and he knows John won’t either.

“I’m going to go then,” Sherlock says. 

“I had a good time. With you. I always have a good time with you.”

“Yea. Me too,” Sherlock closes the car door, “goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

He watches John drive away and hears his phone ping just as he’s out of sight. For a minute he thinks it might be John and his heart skips a beat, but it’s only Mary.

_ Hey, do you know where John is? _

_ He just went home. SH _

_ He was with you, then?” _

_ We went to the carnival. SH _

_ He loves that thing. Thank you for going with him.  _

_ Wish he would have answered his phone though. I was worried he took me up on my offer. _

_ What offer? SH _

_ Nothing. Nevermind. _

_ It’s late and I’m tired. I’ll talk to you tomorrow or something.  _

He puts his phone back in his pocket and goes inside. No doubt Mary is texting John now, and he’s answering her, and they’re talking about how much they miss each other, and she’ll send him a picture of her in bed, and he’ll respond with some stupid emoji with it’s tongue hanging out, and they’ll say intimate things to one another in place of being able to kiss.  _ Her.  _ Because he loves  _ her _ . Because he is straight, and really that’s the most important thing; that’s the thing that’s going to keep them apart, regardless of Mary or not.

He couldn’t want someone else? It had to be John?

It doesn’t matter how  _ he  _ feels, how his teenage stunted hormones are making him think John feels, John is not gay, and he is his sister’s boyfriend, and Sherlock loves his sister - certainly more than he loves his brother, maybe more than he loves anyone, Mary has never done anything to hurt him - not on purpose at least. 

His head is pounding by the time he gets upstairs, He doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes before he flops down on the bed on his stomach. He needs to sleep, and he needs to forget about all of this silly nonsense of  _ feelings.  _

  
  


**************

  
  


Sherlock is thankful he doesn’t have to work the next morning when he wakes. 

He showers away the night before and decides he’ll spend all day at the pool, his phone on silent - dead to the world, and the world dead to him. 

He finds his black trunks (he can’t even look at the lavender ones anymore), slathers himself in sunblock (all by himself, thank you very much), and lies in one of the lounge chairs.  He’s finally feeling alright after an hour of silence goes by when he hears the sound of his car on the other side of the house, and the clink of the gate to the pool.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking at John over the top of his sunglasses.

“I was texting you. You didn’t answer.”

“Generally when someone doesn’t answer you they wish to be left alone.” 

“I wanted to swim.”

“The ocean is literally outside your front door.”

“You can’t  _ swim _ in the ocean,” he sits in the chair next to Sherlock despite not actually being invited, but Sherlock isn’t going to ask him to leave. 

“Do you want coffee or tea? A mimosa maybe?”

“I won’t say no to drinking at nine in the morning.” 

Sherlock leaves him to go into the house and make two pitchers of mimosas the way he’s seen his mom do it a hundred times, and brings one out with two full glasses on a silver tray.  In the time he’s been gone John has taken his shirt off, and Sherlock can see a bit of that tattoo on his pale skin again - a bear maybe or a wolf? It’s maddening that he can’t just  _ see  _ it.  They fall into their usual pattern of not speaking, and drink down one pitcher. When Sherlock comes back this time, John is in the pool.

“Come in,” he says to Sherlock. 

“No, thank you.”

“Come on.”

“Are you going to resort to begging?”

“Maybe. If you make me.”

Sherlock sighs. He dips one toe in and then his whole foot while John stands underneath him, laughing. 

“It’s not that cold.”

“Yes it is. It always is. No one will listen to me about buying a heater.”

“If you jump in you won’t even know.”

“Yes, thank you. I know how that works.”

John holds up his hands, “okay. Just trying to be helpful.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, backs up a few feet and leaps into the water. It is in fact cold and he shivers as his hot skin drowns underneath it.  John is only an arms length away when he comes back up from the water. It feels too far. And why is he still thinking like this?  John is not his to have. 

“I’ve been thinking about something,” John says, suddenly closer to him.

“What’s that?”

“I know it isn’t really any of my business, but I have just wondered over the years, and Bill said something the other night at the beach - I suppose I just always kind of figured-”

Sherlock knows exactly what John is clumsily trying to ask him.  “You’ve assumed correctly,” he says.

“That’s good. I mean, good for you.”

“Thank you?”

“So, how is it you’re still single? It’s not as though there’s a shortage of pretty men around here.”

“Most people don’t like me.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I don’t like them either.”

John laughs, “but honestly, you’re brilliant and you’re funny, and you're so beautiful.”

“What?”

“What?” John covers his mouth, “shit, sorry. I’ve had too many mimosas, and the sun - I-I shouldn’t have said that last bit, not that you aren’t, but I’m sorry I said it. No, that’s not good either. Shit. Fuck.”

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks.

“Not really.”

“Maybe we should get you into the shade for a while.” He maneuvers behind John’s shoulders to try and lead him to the steps, but John pulls away from him. 

He’s visibly upset with wide eyes and a flushed face.

“No, it isn’t - it isn’t just that!” John shouts. “I like you, Sherlock. I really fucking like you, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it, because the last time I liked a boy I was fifteen and I never even kissed him. I never even told him I liked him.”

Sherlock is dumbfounded. John liked a boy before. John likes  _ him _ now. John thinks he’s  _ beautiful. _

“Wh - why not?” he asks.

“I met Mary before I had a chance.”

“Oh.” Mary, There’s a problem not so easily solved. “She  _ is _ my sister.”

“And I love her,” John says quickly, “but I don’t want you to end up on my list of boys I should have kissed, but never did.” 

Sherlock can’t look at the sad, confused, almost tortured look on John’s face, so he looks anywhere but there as he tries to figure out what he’s supposed to do now. 

“I’m sorry,” John says after what feels like an eternity of silence passes between them. 

Sherlock finally looks back at him, “okay,” he says quietly.

“Okay you forgive me for being a total asshole?”

“Okay you can kiss me.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what you wanted to do, right?”

“Yes. God yes, it is. I just wasn’t expecting you to say I could.” 

He hesitates his hand near Sherlock’s head, his fingers barely brushing at his skin before he runs them through his wet hair.

Their mouths only inches away from each other, Sherlock is suddenly very aware that the only other time he was kissed was when he was sixteen, and it barely even counted as a kiss. 

What if he wasn’t any good at it and John didn’t want to kiss him again? Or was this just a one time thing - a favor to quiet the long suffered curiosity of his otherwise straight friend? 

He doesn’t have the chance to explore any of the answers because John is kissing him.

His lips are soft and taste like champagne and chlorine. They’re both unsure as their lips gently tug at each other’s, but then John’s tongue crosses the seam of Sherlock’s mouth and touches his tongue and Sherlock grips John’s shoulders to keep himself upright. Sherlock’s chest burns against John’s for the chance to take a breath, but he won’t let it come for that lingering fear this is the only time he’s ever going to be like this with him. 

And then it’s over.

“That was,” John gently kisses Sherlock’s bottom lip, “fantastic,” he whispers, and a shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine. 

He knows he’s blushing and suddenly he’s embarrassed, and he wants to know what it all just meant, but mostly he just wants to kiss John again because yes, it was  _ fantastic.  _

“I’m not sure what to do now,” he says.

“Burgers.”

“Huh?”

“We should go get a burger.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

They get out and quietly replace their shirts before taking the back steps that lead to the beach and crossing the sand street to the shops and restaurants. The sidewalks are filling up in the early afternoon heat, but they find a place that looks empty enough and sit on the patio. 

Neither has said anything to the other since they left, and Sherlock wonders if John is starting to regret everything. He isn’t going to blame him if he does. Sherlock thinks to apologize, tell him to forget it all, they’ll eat their lunch and move on like none of it happened, but before he can open his mouth, John’s phone pings. He checks it, and then hides it away underneath his napkin.

“Mary?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ll text her later.”

“I don’t mind. It isn’t as though we’re on a date,” he laughs.

John raises an eyebrow, “Aren’t we? On a date?”

“Don’t you think that’s a little inappropriate?”

“More inappropriate than kissing you?”

“I thought that was  _ fantastic _ ?”

“Shut up,” John hides an amused smile behind the rim of his water glass, “I mean it when I say I like you. I like hanging out with you, I like laughing with you, I like looking at you, and now I like kissing you.”

“I like all that too.” Sherlock fidgets with the fork and starts to drink, but the glass doesn’t reach his lips before he sets it back down again. 

“If this is a date then, does that mean you’re paying? Because I don’t have my wallet.”

“I don’t think I have mine either.”

They laugh and John decides he’ll go back to get his, leaving Sherlock at the table. 

He left his phone too, because it starts to go off again and again as Sherlock sits there trying to ignore who he knows it is until his phone goes off too. 

He doesn’t want to look at it, because he knows it’s Mary, but he can’t ignore it.

_ You don’t know what John is up to you, do you? _

_ I can’t get a hold of him. _

_ I think he picked up a shift SH  _

_ Oh, okay.  _

_ So, when are you coming to visit me? _

_ I didn’t know I was SH _

_ You have to! You’d love New York! It’s so sophisticated and the men - so pretty. One of my roommates has a friend who is so gorgeous. _

_ Do you want me to come visit you or are you trying to hook me up? SH _

_ Can’t I want to do both? John is coming the end of August - you should go with him.  _

_ Maybe SH _

_ Alright. I’ll stop bugging you. Love you. Miss you _

_ Miss you too SH _

Sherlock is shit. He’s awful, terrible. He’s on a  _ date  _ with his sister’s boyfriend, and as bad as he feels about it, he won’t take it back.

He won’t.

“You alright?” John asks after he gets back and sits down across from him.

“Fine,” Sherlock says.

“I couldn’t find my wallet, but I saw yours, so-“

“Good,” a smile crosses Sherlock’s face, “lunch will be on Mycroft then.”

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

Two weeks. 

Two weeks of kisses and small touches, the both of them stubbornly ignorant to the reality that waits outside the walls of John’s bungalow.  It’s easier for the two of them; only Bill comes in and out, and he doesn’t seem to care about their affair. 

John is in the kitchen getting pizza when his phone goes off where he left it on the coffee table. Sherlock calls for him, but he doesn’t answer, and it goes off again.  He assumes that it’s Mary, but Bill has gone out that night and so it could be him, but whoever it is, they’re adamant to get a hold of John, and John isn’t hearing Sherlock. 

Just to make it stop Sherlock picks the phone up and the screen comes awake with a picture of a naked woman. It takes him a minute longer than it should have for him to realize who the woman is and tosses the phone across the room.

“Oh, good god!” he shouts just as John comes back into the living room with two plates.

“What?”

Sherlock points to the phone, now on the other side of the room. John crosses to pick it up, and his eyes widen when he sees what upset him.

“Shit. Sorry. I sent her a picture last night and she just must have found the time to respond.”

“A naked picture? Of yourself? After I left?”

“She  _ is  _ my girlfriend.”

“I’m aware.”

“But it’s you I’m here with, isn’t it?” He crosses the room and puts a hand on his cheek.

He kisses him on the mouth then his neck, his collarbone. He slips apart the buttons of his shirt and pushes it from his shoulders - he kisses there too, and then  _ down, down, down. _

Sherlock’s head is spinning. 

John hasn’t kissed him anywhere else but his lips, he’s never ventured to even try, but now John is on his knees lapping at Sherlock’s belly button, and his fingers, usually on his shoulders or through his hair, are running all over his chest, and Sherlock is very disappointed when John stands up to kiss his mouth again.

“I want the picture too,” Sherlock says.

“I can do better than that.” 

Sherlock holds his breath as John pulls his shirt over his head. He’s seen John shirtless a hundred times over the years, but then he unbuttons his jeans and slips out of those too and he’s standing in just his boxers. 

Sherlock finally breathes. He takes a brave step forward and repeats the pattern of kisses John left on him until he gets as low as he dares to go. He hesitates a minute, turns down the waistband of his boxers to  _ finally _ admire the elusive tattoo in its entirety - a silver and black geometric wolf on the bone just above the hollow of his hip. 

He feels John’s hands gentle on the back of his neck, his fingers caressing between his hair and his skin. Sherlock kisses the ink then slips the boxers down to John’s ankles.

Sherlock doesn’t want to admit even then, face to face with John’s cock, that he’s thought about what it might look like, but he has. Several times over. It turns out that it’s short, but thick and a little bit crooked to the left. Either way, it’s beautiful, and hanging out in the open, eagerly waiting,  _ expecting  _ Sherlock to do something. 

“I’ve never done this,” he confesses. 

“It’s not really something you can do wrong,” John tells him. “Whatever feels right to you. Just watch the teeth.”

Sherlock tries to laugh, but he’s too damn nervous. He’s thankful John is already mostly hard and before he can change his mind or pass out he puts his lips around the tip just to get the feeling of it in his mouth. It feels alien, but then John shivers and sighs just the tiniest bit and so Sherlock takes in more and touches his tongue against the tangy skin. He finally moves his hand when John’s fingers twist gently in his hair and starts to suck and lick. 

“That’s good,” John says, “it’s really good.” 

Sherlock looks up to see him looking back down at him before he closes his eyes and let’s his head fall against the wall behind them. He starts to thrust with the rhythm Sherlock’s set and makes a quiet exclamation to god before he warns Sherlock that he’s about to cum. Sherlock doesn’t even have thirty seconds to think before it happens. The hot, salty mixture is disgusting in his mouth so he swallows it down as quickly as he can. 

“Sherlock,” John’s body is limp, but he pulls him up and presses their foreheads together.

“Was it bad?” Sherlock asks.

“No, no! It was fantastic -  _ so fantastic,  _ but you didn’t have to swallow,” he says with a laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind for the next time, then.”

They kiss and very suddenly the only thing between the palm of John’s hands and Sherlock’s cock is the thin fabric of his underwear. 

Sherlock’s vision goes white as John presses harder against him. John pulls the fabric away and his fingers are so soft, his grip so tight and his breath so hot against the curve of Sherlock’s neck that Sherlock can’t imagine anyone else making him feel this good. 

“Jo-“ 

“Shh,” John twists his wrist, stokes faster and harder. 

“Joh-“ he tries to say his name again as the knots and fire build inside his belly. He doesn’t want it to stop, but he can’t hold out much longer.

John whispers his name against his ear, and it’s all over. He cums in John’s hand and every muscle in his body relaxes until he lies down.

He watches John wipe his hand off with his discarded boxers then throw them into the laundry hamper before he disappears and he hears the bathroom tap run. John comes back out a few minutes later in a fresh pair of ridiculously bright orange boxers and kneels down next to him on the floor.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“I’m fine. Still naked though.”

John runs his hand over the hill of Sherlock’s ass, “yes, you are.” 

Sherlock pushes himself up, and searches around for his clothes. 

“Do you want me to take you home? John asks. 

“No.”

They sit together on the couch and watch late night tv. Bill comes in the door a short time later with a giggling girl and they laugh their way into the spare bedroom, but not before he shares a gratuitous wink with John.

Sherlock lays his head in John’s lap and John’s fingers absentmindedly run up and down Sherlock’s sides underneath his shirt. It’s so much more intimate than anything they did earlier in the night, and Sherlock, once again, isn’t sure how he feels about it. 

  
  


*****************

  
  


In the morning, John brings him home.

They sit in the driveway kissing and touching and laughing for a long time before Sherlock finally pulls himself away and out of the car. He’s smiling like a fool when he walks in and doesn’t even care that Mycroft is sitting at the kitchen island reading the paper when he gets to the kitchen.

“What do you think you’re doing? Mycroft asks.

“Getting some water.”

“Don’t be a smart ass. I mean with John.”

“We’re friends?”

"Granted I make it a point not to bother with those kinds of things, so I could be mistaken, but I don’t believe you’re supposed to kiss your friend the way you just kissed him.”

“You’re spying on me?”

“Dad said you didn’t come home last night - he was worried. I heard the car outside, and just went to check if it was you.”

“I’m eighteen years old. I can stay away all night if I want, and my business isn’t any of yours. Ever.”

“Are you having sex with him?”

“What? Mycroft!”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m not.”

“What do you think is going to happen when John goes to visit Mary and he remembers how much he misses her? What if she finds out about the two of you and they break up? Can you live with that?”

“For god’s sake, Mycroft, it is eight in the morning, and I told you my life is none of your business, just because you don’t have one of your own.”

He stomps upstairs and into his room. He doesn’t know what will happen even though he thinks about it all the time, but he and John don’t talk about it - it’s the elephant in the room they keep on ignoring. Sherlock has an easy bag of lies he reaches into when Mary uses him to try and find out where her boyfriend might be, and obviously John makes up for any suspicion she might have with his photos and whatever else it is he does and says to her that Sherlock would rather not know about.

And it’s only a bit of fun between the two of them anyway; John is lonely, he’s exploring a part of his sexuality he never has before and Sherlock is finally finding that there’s something to being a sexual creature .

He isn’t  _ in love  _ with John, he doesn’t want to make him his boyfriend, so it’s fine. Everything is fine. 

He sits behind his computer and tries to find something else to focus on. His free moments are taken up by this kind of thinking too often. His phone vibrates next to him.

_ I miss you _

_ I think you didn’t mean to send that to me SH _

_ Yes, I did _

_ Oh SH _

_ I’ve been thinking about last night all morning .  _

_ Oh SH  _

_ Your mouth on my cock. I want that again. I need that again. _

_ Can I pick you up?  _

_ You just left me SH _

_ I know, but I want you. _

_ Okay SH _

Sherlock changes and quietly goes downstairs to wait for him. He looks around for Mycroft - he can feel he’s still skulking around somewhere. 

John must have been close because no more than three minutes pass before he sees him through the window. 

Sherlock gets in the car, and John looks so good - He must have gone home to shower and change out of his sweatpants and t-shirt. 

They drive to the beach, still empty except for a few of the leftover homeless that like to sleep there by the fire pits, and early risers running through the morning surf. John parks at the end of the lot, and Sherlock wastes no time in sliding over the gear shift and into his lap. His head hits the roof of the car and the steering wheel digs into his back as they grind the fabric of their jeans together, kissing while their hands beg to find open skin, but he doesn’t care. Sherlock knows this can go exactly where it went the night before, but suddenly that doesn’t feel like it’s going to be enough.

They kiss feverishly, they tug at the clothes between them. 

“I want to fuck you,” Sherlock whispers, and it echoes in the small space of the car. 

John freezes and his hands fall away from where they were so expertly touching Sherlock, and he immediately regrets what he said.

He was caught up in the moment, and they only  _ just  _ moved beyond kissing the night before - hell, John hadn’t even gone down on  _ him  _ yet, and John wouldn’t want to be fucked, he was the one who did the fucking, and he did it to women. It was one thing to let another boy give him a blowjob, and to give a handjob to the same boy, but sex - it was an entirely different thing. 

Sherlock was so stupid. 

“I mean, never mind. Forget I even said it,” he starts to try and kiss John again, but John doesn’t kiss back.

Shit. He really made a mistake.

“Yes,” John says, staring right into his eyes, “I want you to fuck me.”

Holy shit. 

“But not here,” John says. 

“Obviously.”

John laughs. He helps Sherlock back to the passenger side and drives down the road to his bungalow. 

They kiss through the doorway and into the bedroom and start to undress each other. John sits on the bed and pulls Sherlock down into his lap where they keep kissing.

“Are you sure?” John asks.

“Did you change your mind?”

“No, but we don’t have to go this fast. I don’t need you to - I mean, I don’t want you to do something you’re not ready for.” 

“I’m ready.” 

“Okay, good. Good.” 

“What about you? It’s not exactly your...area.”

“I’m ready too.”

Sherlock smiles and they kiss again, “there’s condoms in the bathroom,” John says. 

“O-Okay,”

Sherlock goes down the hall and into the bathroom. He looks in the medicine cabinet, but there’s nothing but a toothbrush and some hair pomade, so he looks in the drawer, and there’s the box. 

It’s small, and half empty and he pushes away the thoughts of who John used the rest of them with. He takes one out and the sound of the ripping foil echoes through his ears. He takes a minute to gingerly roll it on, careful not to screw it up. 

When he goes back to the bedroom John is lying on the bed, fully naked, fully hard and Sherlock’s body freezes while his mind races on. He knows the mechanics of sex, but has no idea what he’s doing. What if he hurts him, what if he goes too fast or too slow, and if he does hurt him, will John tell him to stop? If it’s not good, will he decide this isn't something he wants to do again, and why now? Why with Sherlock? He’s had to have other opportunities before, why is this the one he’s taking? 

“Sherlock?”

He’s brought back by John’s concerned voice and crosses the room to climb on the bed. There’s a bottle of lube on the table next to him, and he steels his brain to shut up and just focus on the task. 

He knows he can’t just go at it, so he squirts a little lube in his hands, rubs them together, making sure his fingers are sufficiently wet. 

John has his knees up with his arms hooked underneath them and Sherlock hesitantly presses one finger just against the delicate skin and very lightly runs a circle around and around before he dares to push the finger inside and past the ring of muscle. 

John jumps as his natural instinct is to fight, but he ignores it and pushes down slightly against Sherlock’s finger. It makes him moan and so he does it again. Sherlock slides his finger out, and John moans at that too, and again when Sherlock pushes back in with a second finger. 

“ _ Ooo, Jesus,”  _ John cries

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine - it’s fine. It’s just...weird.”

“Weird?”

“Different! It’s different. Please keep going.” 

Sherlock pushes further inside and John’s cants his hips off the bed. Sherlock decides he can’t wait any longer, and he wants more than just his fingers to be inside of him. He wraps John’s legs around his waist, and slowly,  _ slowly  _ pushes his cock inside John. 

John flinches and his eyes twist in pain with each little inch Sherlock moves. He thinks maybe he should stop, but John digs his fingers into his shoulder blades and makes him stay. 

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asks.

“Just keep going.” 

Sherlock does and he forgets about his worry of John’s pain when he lets himself actually feel how good it is to have John and all his masculinity underneath him, how tight he is around Sherlock’s cock, how  _ he  _ is the one making John wiggle and squirm and chant his name under his breath. He touches John and he jumps from the extra sensation, but he moves into it.

“Oh, god, Sherlock, you have no idea-“ he slaps his hand over his own face and bites down at the fleshy curve near his thumb. He covers Sherlock’s hand on his cock with the other and they stroke him together as they both get closer and closer to cumming. 

John tries to say something, but it’s strangled off by a shout as he cums over their hands and across his stomach. Sherlock can’t look away and it’s only a few more thrusts into John before he cums too. He unceremoniously falls backwards against the mattress, flushed, full of sweat and satisfaction. 

He sits up and sees John just as he left him; debauched and beautiful. 

“I don’t know,” John starts, “I don’t know why I’ve never done that before. I’ve never even let Mary anywhere near my ass, and she’s asked.”

“Can we please not talk about my sister just after we’ve had sex?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have any other frame of reference.”

“I know,” he lays back down and blindly searches for John’s hand to hold onto. He stares at the cracks in the ceiling. He isn’t going to let their ever deepening predicament ruin this. 


	4. Chapter Four

“Sherlock, Sherlock, we have to go.”

Sherlock looks up at John from where he’s knelt in front of him on the bathroom floor, “do you really want me to stop right now?”

“No, but hurry up.”

“This is a talent I’m trying to master, John. Your patience and cooperation would be appreciated.”

“In the time we’ve had this conversation I could have cum.”

“You started it.”

“Just finish!” he shouts, and then more gently, “please.”

Sherlock smirks and continues on as he was. He uses his hand and fingers more than he usually does in an effort to get John off as quickly as possible. 

They  _ are  _ going to be late if they don’t leave in the next seven minutes, but Sherlock thinks that might not be the worst thing. He’s not even sure why he agreed to go to New York with John. Maybe it was the constant guilt making him make bad decisions. 

“This is no longer my fault,” Sherlock says, giving up and standing back on his feet, “you never take this long.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.” 

“And I don’t? You asked me-“

“I know I did. I thought it would relax me.”

“We’re not even there yet and she’s ruining everything.” 

“I can still go down on you,” John claws at Sherlock’s belt buckle, but Sherlock pushes him away.

“No. It’s fine.” 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighs and goes into the bedroom. He picks his bag up from the middle of the floor, “let’s just go,” he says.

They make it to their plane on time and sit in silence. Every few minutes John puts his hand over Sherlock’s and runs his thumb across his knuckles before putting it back in his lap. 

“It’ll be okay,” John says, “it’s just eight days.” 

“And what comes after those eight days?” 

“I don’t know. We go back home, and back to normal.”

“What about any of this has been normal?”

John leans in and kisses Sherlock’s cheek, and they fall back into their uneasy silence.

Sherlock is nauseous when the plane lands in New York. John holds his hand as they exit and cross from one side to the other. He lets go when they finally get to the escalator that takes them to baggage claim.

Sherlock spots Mary right as they get to the luggage carousel. Her hair is longer than when she left, and pulled back into a ponytail that falls over her left shoulder. She’s in white shorts and a black tank top with a white vest over that. Sherlock thinks she looks very much like she belongs there. 

When she finally sees them, she pushes at least three people out of the way and hugs Sherlock first, but quickly discards him like an old, ugly rag doll and sweeps John into her arms. 

She kisses him feverishly, and he kisses her back, no thought to Sherlock right next to him. He even drops his carry on bag to hold onto her tighter.

Sherlock is going to throw up.

“I missed you so much,” Mary says when they finally let go.

“God, I missed you too.” John kisses her again and Sherlock clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he says. 

“No. He’s not. We haven’t seen each other in almost three months and neither he or I will apologize for any public - or private - displays of affection you might witness.”

“ _ Fantastic _ ,” Sherlock says under his breath.

They get their luggage and drop it off in the doorway at Mary’s apartment before she whisks them back into the cab and to a café only a few blocks away for lunch. Sherlock orders a Cobb salad, but he can only pick at it. 

“So,” Mary starts after spilling a little of the martini she ordered with her lunch over her hand, “today we can just hang out, tomorrow we can see some of the sights, and Jim is having a party on Friday”

“Who’s Jim?” John asks.

“Jim is Molly’s friend. He’s Irish and rich and absolutely gorgeous.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Fortunately for you, I’m not his type, but Sherlock very much is.”

“How do you know he’s my type?” Sherlock asks, wishing very much he was old enough to drink out in public.

“Jim is everyone’s type. And does it matter? It’s past time you get laid for the first time, and I’m giving you a gift with Jim.” 

“Have you pimped him out to this guy? How old is he even?”

“24.” 

“24? Don’t you think that’s a little old?”

“No.” She kisses John cheeks, “it’s sexy you care so much about my little brother though.” 

“Well, we’ve gotten closer this summer.”

“That’s sweet.”

If only she knew the half of it, Sherlock thinks. 

They finish lunch and walk around the few blocks surrounding Mary’s apartment, her hand holding the hand Sherlock was just holding a few hours ago.

Mary opens a bottle of wine when they get to the apartment, and pours them all a glass. She sits across John’s lap over the couch as they drink through that bottle and then another.

Eventually she and John start to kiss and he carries her into the bedroom. Sherlock doesn’t move from the chair he’s been in all night. He can hear them having sex and he knows what she’s doing to him from the sounds he makes, but there’s some he’s never heard before. He finally thinks he can’t take it anymore and is about to go outside to smoke when he hears John go to the bathroom. He thinks maybe he’ll stop and say something to him, but he just goes back to the bedroom and he can hear them going at it again. 

Sherlock’s barely slept when they’re all up in the morning in the tiny kitchen eating bagels from the bakery down the stairs, Mary again in John’s lap and John’s hands tight around her waist.

Sherlock ignores them.

He gets ready for the day. It’s hot in the city - that kind of muggy heat that lingers in the air and makes you feel sick to your stomach. He finds the black shorts he brought and a blue shirt. He doesn’t see John or Mary until they’re ready to go out the door.

She takes them all around the city, and Sherlock is still ignoring them the best he can, but he stands and smiles for the pictures Mary forces them to take.  He’s exhausted by the time they’re at dinner in a too dark bar. He isn’t hungry, and pushes around at the steak and potatoes on his plate.

“Is there a reason you’ve been acting like a bored child all day?” Mary asks him.

“Nope.” 

“The city not brilliant enough for you?”

“It’s just fine.”

“Lay off him, Mary,” John says, “he’s probably just nervous about this hook up you’ve set up for him in a couple days.”

“I haven’t signed a contract or anything, geez. Sherlock can say no - I just want them to meet, see if he likes him. I think you’re more upset about it than he is.”

“I’m not,” John takes a drink of his pint. 

“Maybe I’m acting like a child,” Sherlock interjects, “because the two of you are treating me like one. Mary, I appreciate your awkward interest in my sex life, but I assure you that I am  _ very  _ capable of finding someone to screw on my own if I want to. And John, it isn’t really any of your business at all if I want to sleep with this Jim guy or not.”

He pushes out his chair and stands up.

“Where are you going?” Mary asks.

“Back to your apartment. I’d like to sleep tonight, so if you could keep quiet while you’re fucking later, that would be great.”

Sherlock leaves them at the restaurant and hails a taxi. When he gets back to the apartment he flops onto the sofa. He knows Mary has roommates, but they haven’t been home yet, and he’s thankful for that. He pulls out his phone and absentmindedly plays a game of solitaire until he falls asleep. 

He faintly hears the front door open and close a few hours later. He opens his eyes just a crack and sees John and Mary walking in. Their feet tangle each other as he twirls her and gives her a kiss. It’s obvious they’ve had too much to drink. 

Mary walks to the bedroom and John follows, but he stops at the couch and pulls down the blanket on the back to cover Sherlock.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and gently kisses his forehead before Mary calls his name and John leaves him cold.

What was he sorry for? For what he was about to do, what he had already done? Was he sorry because he was going back to Mary - not that he had left her - and everything between the two of them was over? 


	5. Chapter Five

John has on black jeans and a tight army green t-shirt, and his hair is perfectly messy. He looks absolutely handsome, and Sherlock is beyond frustrated he can’t reach out and tear the clothes right back off him. 

He’s in dark grey trousers and a matching jacket with a pale pink shirt underneath that John bought him a few weeks earlier. He catches John licking his lips as their eyes meet coming out of the apartment. He pretends not to notice, but smirks when John is out of sight, satisfied that maybe he’s frustrated too. 

Jim’s apartment is exactly as Sherlock expected it to be; two full bars, oversized black and white nude photographs on the walls, expensive gold statuettes. 

And Mary was not wrong when she said he was gorgeous, and when Sherlock hears him speak from behind one of the bars after he was basically shoved into it, he almost forgets who John Watson even is. 

“Your sister seems to think we’ll get on,” he says to him, “what do you drink?”

“You know I’m only eighteen?”

“Still legal,” he says, “what do you drink?”

“Still just eighteen.” 

“Well, I do have sparkling water, Coke, ginger ale, some milk maybe.” 

Sherlock doesn’t want to come off as a child anymore than he probably already has, and obviously he drinks, but he didn’t think Jim would be impressed with his consumption of craft beers and margaritas. 

“Vodka tonic,” he says. 

Jim smiles and mixes two drinks. They clink their glasses and each takes a sip. Sherlock keeps his in his hands, but Jim sets his down to lean across the bar, so close to Sherlock’s face he can feel his breath in his mouth. 

“You find me again,” Jim whispers, “I’d love to give you a tour of my place.”

“Okay.”

Jim grins and walks away. It takes Sherlock a full minute to gather himself before he can see where John and Mary are and makes his way to them. 

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” Mary asks him.

“He’s...something.”

“Oh come on, you’re not seriously buying into this bullshit, are you?” John asks. He’s already had two whiskey drinks.

“Everything about this place is pretentious - it’s sick. He even has a throne for fucks sake.”

“Is someone jealous of Jim’s things?” Mary asks.

“Hardly.”

“Jim did all this by himself doing freelance consulting right out of business school.”

“Isn’t that great for him?”

“I would think you’d be happy Sherlock is interested in someone. He starts to get himself out there and we won’t have to build him an old maids loft in our place.”

Sherlock’s attention is piqued, “You’re moving in together?”

“We haven’t made any real decisions, but it will make the most sense once he’s here.”

“You’re moving here? To New York?”

“I-“ 

“John got moved off the waitlist for NYU.”

“Isn’t that great for you two? Soon you’ll be Dr. and Mrs. Watson.”

“I hope so,” Mary says holding tight to John’s arm.

Sherlock finishes his drink in one gulp, “fucking great,” he says and walks away back to the bar where Jim has been watching him. John calls after him, but he ignores it. He’s gotten good at that this trip.

“Back already?” Jim slips the glass he never finished across to him. Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to pick it up and drink it.

“Looks like.”

“Are you in love with him; Mary’s boyfriend?”

Sherlock glances over his shoulder at John looking at him, “No,” he says and looks back to Jim.

“Good. Are you ready for that tour then?” 

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.” Jim walks out from the bar and takes him by the hand. Sherlock can feel John’s eyes follow them out of the room, and it makes him feel in control for the first time since they got to New York.

Jim does show Sherlock the apartment; kitchen, library, guest rooms, bathrooms, closet. There was a small staircase at the end of the hall on the second floor. They climb it to the top and the door opens to a magnificent bedroom - gold furniture, a fireplace on one wall and the opposite made completely of glass that overlooks the city. 

“And this is my room,” Jim says.

“Impressive.”

Jim sits on his bed, Sherlock follows and hesitantly sits next to him, because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do - this isn’t a situation he’s familiar with. 

The only sound either of them can hear is Sherlock’s heart beating wildly. Why was he up there? What was he actually going to do with this complete stranger? 

His thoughts are dashed when Jim pinches his chin between his thumb and index finger and kisses him. It’s achingly slow and terrifyingly controlled as Jim completely, relentlessly consumes Sherlock’s mouth, and he can feel the bruises starting to form underneath his grip. 

Jim finally stops kissing him and lets him go. He gives Sherlock a minute to catch his breath before he slips off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, undoes his belt buckle, and lays Sherlock down against the cold, silk pillows.

He stands at Sherlock’s feet and undresses himself. Sherlock watches wide eyed as more and more pale skin becomes visible until he’s fully divested. Sherlock’s thoughts go back to the weight of the situation and to John downstairs. 

Was he jealous? Was he hurt? Part of Sherlock hopes so, but another part thinks maybe he shouldn’t do this, but Jim is so god damn sexy and Sherlock doesn’t belong to John; Mary belongs to him, and they’ve made that point perfectly clear all week, and soon enough what he and John had will just be a fading memory. 

It’s time for Sherlock to grow up and move on from this summer crush. 

He sits up and runs his hands over the straight line of Jim’s hips, over the curve of his ass and back around to feel the length of his cock. It’s much longer than John’s, thinner too. Sherlock licks a stripe on the underside before taking in as much as he can. 

“Oh, yes,” Jim rumbles above him and twists his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. 

He lets Sherlock do as he pleases before he grips the back of his head to move it the way he likes until he cums. He holds Sherlock there longer than Sherlock appreciates before letting him go, and he rushes into the bathroom to spit into the sink. He rinses his mouth with warm water from the tap and avoids looking at himself in the mirror.

When he’s ready to go back he meets Jim in the middle of the room and is pulled into a crushing kiss. 

“Perfect,” he whispers to Sherlock. 

He slips him out of his underwear and traces the line of Sherlock’s spine up and down. He drops down to his knees and turns Sherlock’s around so fast Sherlock bangs into the dresser that’s behind him, but before he can even register the pain, he’s feeling the pleasure of Jim’s tongue darting in and out ofsomewhere unexpected. Sherlock drapes over the top of the dresser; Jim is just as relentless down there as he was when kissing his mouth earlier. John never did this to him, and for the life of him he can’t think why because he’s never felt anything so amazing. 

“Mmm,” Jim growls against him, “I’m definitely going to fuck you.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how he doesn’t cum right then. 

He’s dripping sweat into the sheets when Jim carries him by the waist back to the bed. He’s shaking with pure desire on his hands and knees waiting for the rip of the condom wrapper, the chill of the lube and for Jim to be inside of him. 

He doesn’t mean to, but he shouts, because it does hurt, and it takes his brain a minute to catch up to Jim’s rhythm so he can push back against him.

As with everything else Jim is in complete, crushing control. Sherlock’s head swims with an overload of pleasure. He’s desperately trying to grip the sheets to keep from falling, but they’re so fucking slippery, and he crashes down on his chest. He’s so hard it hurts to touch himself, but he has to either cum or pass out. 

“Fuck - _ Jim _ ! - fuck!

Jim thrusts harder and pulls Sherlock up by his waist until his back touches his chest. He puts a hand over Sherlock’s on his cock and they stroke together as Jim keeps fucking. 

Sherlock’s head lols back to Jim’s shoulder, his hand falls away to his side - he can’t do anything but sit there anymore. Jim licks and nips and kisses at Sherlock’s neck. He feels the fire rise to the very edge of the cliff inside his stomach and he nearly screams when he finally cums. 

Jim lays him down, but Sherlock doesn’t think he should stay much longer, so he slowly gets dressed, and tries to tame his hair into something that doesn’t so obviously scream ‘I just had sex’.

He waits for him to put himself back together and they go downstairs together. Jim makes him yet another drink at the bar, and Sherlock is still a little high from everything, but before Sherlock can take a sip John is tugging at the sleeve of his jacket.

“Can I talk to you a minute? Alone?”

Jim leans over the bar and kisses Sherlock’s cheek, “that was fun,” he says, “come see me again before you leave the city.”

John’s face twists into something ugly Sherlock has never seen before and his fists ball at his sides before he drags Sherlock through the crowd and outside. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He shouts.

“Things you and I have never done.”

“You don’t even know that guy! Did you fuck him?” 

“Yep.” 

He watches John’s expression change from furious to flat out rageful.

“Jesus. What about us?”

“Us? There is no us, John - We aren’t boyfriends. We’re future brothers in law with an interesting secret to keep until it comes out one Christmas! So, I do thank you, John, for the experience this summer. It certainly was useful tonight.”

“You are an asshole.”

“I’m an asshole? I’ve been listening to you fuck my sister all week! Watching you kiss her and her hanging all over you! You’re moving here for god's sake!”

|She’s my girlfriend!”

“I know! That’s my point! Mary is yours; you are hers. I was just an interesting distraction.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it? You had a lingering curiosity and a sudden opportunity to explore it with me. I don’t have any friends to find out, I’m certainly not going to tell Mary about it, I had absolutely no experience - I was a safe, easy choice.”

“Sherlock” John tries to take a step toward him, but Sherlock takes a step back.

“Fine. You’re absolutely right; astoundingly brilliant! I used you: I was lonely, and scared about my future with Mary and confused about feelings from long in the past!. You were  _ easy _ because no one had ever bothered to waste their time with you before!”

They stand on the empty sidewalk staring at each other, neither knowing what else to say. 

There isn’t anything left to say. 

They can see the door open from their peripherals and Mary comes more and more into their focus.

“There you two are. Everything alright?” she asks, feeling the tension between them. 

“I'm ready to leave now,” John says, looking at Sherlock.

“Me too.” Sherlock says, looking at John.

“O-okay.”

Mary hails down a cab. Sherlock gets in first and Mary pushes John in second. Sherlock rolls his eyes and curves up into the door as much as he can without falling out. They get back to the apartment and John storms straight into the bedroom.

“Did something happen at the party that I missed?” Mary asks Sherlock as they sit next to each other on the couch.

“I think he just had too much to drink.”

“Well, did you say something to upset him? He’s usually cheery when he’s drunk.”

“I don’t know, Mary. I’m not too concerned about John, to be honest.”

"Okay, okay. So, where did you and Jim disappear to?”

“I think you’re bright enough to figure it out.”

“Was it amazing?”

“Is this a conversation we should be having?”

“I am never going to get to have sex with Jim Moriarty. I am probably never going to get to have sex with anyone besides John actually, so I’m going to have to live vicariously through you.”

“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”

“It wasn’t good?”

“It was different,” he says.

“Different than what?”

_ Shit _

“Nothing. No one.”

_ Shit. Shit. Shit. _

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes were you not a virgin before tonight?”

Sherlock sighs, “No, I wasn’t.”

“Oh my god! Why didn’t you tell me? Who was he? Are you dating? Is he cute? Oh my god, did you just cheat on him?”

“I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t think it was any of your business. We are not dating, so technically I did not cheat on him, I will not tell you who he is, and he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“More beautiful than James Moriarty?”

“Exceptionally.”

“Do I know him?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then who is he? Where did you meet him?”

“I’ve told you enough.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Mary,” they both look up to see John in the doorway of the bedroom in his underwear, his arms crossed over his chest, “leave him alone. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” she pouts. 

“Now will you come to bed, please?” he asks.

She gets up and kisses Sherlock on the top of the head before she and John go into the bedroom. 

They don’t come out again until late evening the next day, both looking rumpled and satisfied. Sherlock ignores it and continues to read one of the books he found on the shelf the night before. 

“Should we go out for your last night here?” Mary asks. 

“That sounds good,” John agrees.

“You two go. I’m tired and it takes me forever to pack anyway.”

“We’re not going without you,” Mary says.

“It might be nice,” John chimes in.

“Sure it would, but -”

“Go,” Sherlock tells them.

Mary reluctantly agrees and she and John shower and get dressed. Sherlock can barely stand how good John looks, how his cologne smells, how his presence fills up the entire space. 

Mary leaves Sherlock some money to order a pizza and the password to her Netflix account. He orders Chinese instead and opens a bottle of wine from the countertop. 

This is not where he’s supposed to be. There was a reason Sherlock stayed away from romantic entanglements. It wasn’t that he didn’t think he was attractive enough or that he wasn’t attracted to anyone - he certainly was, and alright, part of it was because other boys thought him to be weird, but not all of them. 

He stayed away from the teenage romance because he knew inevitably it would end. Whether by something messy and complicated that even adults didn’t understand or by the natural fact that he’s just young and young people are stupid. 

Either way, it would be over and he would be sad, and that was silly. What is there to be sad about? What is he really losing? 

Friendship? He feels much the same way he does about that as he does love, and he can always make a new friend if he really thinks he needs to. Good sex? His experience with Jim taught him that isn’t something all that hard to come by. 

Sherlock thinks that’s all he wants anyway from now on; sex without the stupid strings of love and feeling. That way no one has to hurt in the end.

  
  



	6. Chapter Six

Now that he’s home, Sherlock thinks he's never going to leave again. Not even to work. In fact he’s just going to quit work. He doesn’t need the money, and he is more than happy to never see John again. He tosses his bag in the corner and climbs underneath his covers; maybe that’s exactly where he’s going to stay. 

He turns off his phone and places it upside down on the nightstand, and stares at the ceiling. He realizes he’s fallen asleep when he’s woken up by the doorbell, and the sound of his dad calling his name. He hopes he’s only dreaming, because there’s only one person who would come and see him, but the splitting headache he’s suddenly come down with, tells him he’s not.

He goes downstairs and there is John, just as he thought, standing in the foyer, hands shoved in the pockets of his blue jeans.

He’s a wanted and yet wholly unwelcomed sight.  Sherlock drank himself to sleep their last night in New York and never heard him and Mary come back. He woke early in the morning to pack his things and waited outside until John was ready to go. 

He made sure to hug Mary first when the cab pulled up, and didn’t look for the three minutes it took her and John to say goodbye to each other.  Neither one of them said anything on the way to the airport, and nothing on the plane. There was no hand holding, no touching. But they didn’t shout or curse one another either. And when they got home, John phoned Bill to pick him up and Sherlock took an Uber. 

“I brought back your car,” John says, “do you have my keys?”

“In the garage.”

John follows him through the house and out into the garage where his car is covered by a tarp in the back. Sherlock takes the keys from the wall. His head still throbs, and now his stomach hurts, and he’s angry at himself, angry at John, angry that he can’t kiss him anymore, can’t feel underneath his tight black t-shirt. 

Their fingers touch while he’s handing over the keys, and they suddenly trip over themselves trying to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I had no right to be that angry or to be jealous; you’re right, you aren’t my boyfriend, but you were, you  _ are  _ something. 

“You think I’m angry you got upset about Jim?”

“Probably not as upset as you were about seeing me with Mary all week?”

“Brilliant.”

John scrubs his hand over the back of his neck, “I missed her. I won’t lie about that, and I didn’t want her to suspect anything about you and I, because I didn’t want to hurt her, so I might have overcompensated, but god, I don’t want to move to New York and drink cocktails in a badly lit black and gold bar or take a cab to get my laundry done. I don’t want to marry Mary. I want the beach, and poorly made margaritas, and, and you.” John gently pushes a stray curl away from Sherlock’s forehead, “I want you.”

“I want you too,” Sherlock says.

“Then why are we still mad at each other?”

“I’m not mad,” he closes the small gap left between them and kisses him. 

“When we were arguing outside the party,” John says, hesitantly, “you said something about you and Jim doing something we hadn’t.”

“I did?”

“You know you did.”

Sherlock blushes and leans close to John’s ear, “He licked my ass.”

“O-oh. Well, I can do that.”

“So can I.” a devilish glint shines in his eyes, as he leaves John to lock the door that leads back to the house.

“Right now?” John asks, “it’s the middle of the day. Your dad is home.”

“And tasting wine down in the cellar. He won’t be up for hours or hear a thing.” He swipes at John’s jeans and pulls them down along with his boxers. 

He turns him around and bends him over the open window of the Ferrari they were standing next to. Sherlock drops to his knees and starts kissing the back of John’s thighs and each round cheek. He licks quickly at the center and waits for the little moan he knows is going to come, but it’s muffled by the metal of the door. He does it again and again and again, until he can definitely hear him as he spreads him further apart, darts his tongue in and out and seals his mouth completely to lick and suck until his face is red and he can barely breathe. 

“Jesus fucking - fuck!” John shouts. “Sherlock, I can’t - I. Fuck me. Now.”

“This is a garage. I don’t have a condom.”

“I don’t care.”

“But-”

“I don’t care!”

“Okay, okay.”

Sherlock stands back on his feet, and hastily pulls down his pants and underwear and wastes no time in fucking him. John groans each time he’s thrust into the cool of the car, and it only takes two or three times for him to cum against the door, and Sherlock inside of him.

When their breath comes back to them, Sherlock helps straighten him back out of the car, “fuck,” he says of a stain on the shining red, door.

John turns his head sideways as he stares at it, “we can shine that out. Probably.”

“My dad loves this car.”

“More than you?”

"Certainly more than Mycroft”

They laugh, and Sherlock gets out the car kit from the top shelf and they scrub and wax the door until there’s no evidence left. 

“Just give me time with Mary,” John says, “don’t say anything to her.”

“Alright,” he tosses the rags into the basket by the door, and puts the wax back on the shelf.

“And I really do want my car back.”

“But why?”

“I miss my tapes.”

Sherlock laughs. He bends down to pick up the keys he dropped and gives them to John with a kiss. He takes off the tarp, and closes the door as John gets in.

He watches him drive off, and unlocks the door so he can go back inside. He takes a water bottle from the fridge and brings it into the sitting room where he sees Mycroft already taking up space.

“Don’t you have your own house to haunt?” he asks him, “what are you doing here?”

“Dad has new wine. You and John survived your trip then?” 

“Yes? Oh, good god, you heard us, didn’t you?”

“Unfortunately. You’re using protection aren’t you?”

“Oh my god, can we not?”

“I’m your big brother. It’s my duty.”

“How  _ unfortunate for me _ then. Yes, we are.” 

Earlier notwithstanding. 

“And do you love him?”

“I - I’m not commenting on that.”

“Fine. Just remember to protect your heart too.”

“Now I’m going to be sick. Go away.”

*********

“It’s done.”

Sherlock looks up from where he sits cross legged on his bed to see John standing in the doorway. It's the first time in days he's heard from him, let alone actually seen him. His eyes are puffy, and red, and the skin underneath his nose is dry.

“You were crying,” he says.

“Only because she was.”

“Do you think you made a mistake?”

“No!” John sits down next to him, and puts his hand on hi cheek, “I love you, Sherlock.”

“You do?”

John blushes, “Well, yea.”

“ _I_ love you.”

John smiles that bright smile that fills Sherlock with sunshine, “good.”

“What do we do now?” Sherlock asks.

“Whatever we want, wherever we want, whenever we want.”

“I want to kiss you, right here, right now.” 

“Okay.” 

John leans in and kisses him, slow and beautiful until they fall against the bed. John brushes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock tickles at John’s arm. 

He doesn’t know of this is something he’s wanted all along or if it’s just John, but he isn’t sorry to have it; to have him. 

  
  



End file.
